


The First Time

by imanadultiguess



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Discussions of BDSM play, F/M, I love subbie Greg and dommie Sally, Spanking, Sub Greg, domme Sally
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-09-17 16:53:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9334175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imanadultiguess/pseuds/imanadultiguess
Summary: A recollection of Sally's first times, leading up to the first time Lestrade ever submitted to her.





	1. The History of Firsts

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trashy as hell. This is, like, the culmination of all of my deep dark femdom-y fantasies.

_The first time Sally Donovan saw the submissive, it was her eighteenth birthday._

She'd actually ditched her friends and family at the pub ("I don't feel well; I'm just gonna pop by the chemist and grab some things."), and made her way to a BDSM club, Simple Pleasures. The staff at the door weren't impressed with her dress, and even warned her that she didn't meet the dresscode, but denims and a Newtrament t-shirt were not going to be what kept her out of the audience of a legitimate D/s demonstration. She'd stared the woman at the door down until she relented. She'd flashed her new ID, which confirmed she was old enough to enter, paid the entrance fee, and made her way inside. 

It was a bit absurd, she knew; the folks dressed as cats, as dogs, muscular cis men dressed as Bo Peep, the soldiers in their fatigues licking the leather boots of dom/mes . . . Her former-soldier father would have a fit if he saw this. 

Even so, she was glad to be here. 

Despite her rather radical taste in music and politics, Sally was a stickler for the rules. She liked structure, and she liked when those around her obeyed that structure. Perhaps it was the fact that she came from a military family, or maybe it was just the way she was born. Regardless, because of her desire to follow the rules unless absolutely necessary, she'd never visited a porn site ("Must be 18 or older to enter" or "Enter your birthdate"), she'd never sought out a submissive, she'd never even gone past heavy-petting with past boyfriends. (But, if she was honest, she'd asked Jonathan to masturbate while she watched. He declined.) She tried to keep her research on the scene clinical, reading articles on the pain center of the brain being the same as the pleasure center, reading about tools used in the scene and how to use them safely, et cetera. 

That didn't stop her from fantasizing. The first time she'd been aware of her dominant, sadistic tendencies, she'd been about twelve. Her neighbor Tommy Kaufman was playing in the fireplace ("tending it!" he'd insisted), and the crush she'd had on him had suddenly culminated in the desire to press the hot poker against his neck, to reassure him as he wept at the pain, to tell him, "It's okay, sweetheart. You're all right, my pretty Tommy. Now everyone will know you're mine." 

It had been a terrifying fantasy, but one that she revisited for years to come. 

At fourteen, she'd ordered her then-boyfriend Khouri to masturbate while she watched. He'd declined. 

At sixteen, she fantasized about Coach Kassis, that masculine mountain of muscle, writhing at her feet, begging her for permission to orgasm. 

And now, she was eighteen, and she was here at the club, sitting between a scrawny male submissive in leather that only accentuated the pockets of fat deposited around his body (his Daddy didn't seem to mind at all) and a gender/dynamic fluid person in green latex. Perhaps these weren't _her_ preferred submissives, but it was nice to be with people who were all there for the sole purpose of watching some disobedient sub be punished. 

And the sub had been beautiful. Before his Lady blindfolded him, his expressive brown eyes had scanned the audience, looking mildly afraid, but when his gaze turned towards his owner, his eyes had filled with trust. 

Christ, Sally wanted that. Some beautiful boy to trust her explicitly. But she would never share--not like this Lady Lola. No one else would ever get to see her beautiful boy's bum displayed so perfectly before being beaten to a bright red. No one would see his tears but her. No one would make him cry but her. 

Still, she appreciated the Lady's generosity. 

And for weeks afterwards, she'd dreamed about the submissive with the floppy brown hair and the fearful dark eyes. She'd dreamed about the the sounds he made as he was whipped, about the sweet, lost look on his face as his Lady tortured his cock, as she applied small bursts of electricity to his nipples. 

______

_The first time Sally met Greg Lestrade, he was with his wife Laura at the MPS Holiday Party. She recognized him instantly as the sub she'd seen onstage approximately five years ago on her eighteenth birthday._

He smiled at her warmly, offering his hand. "The Superintendent has had a lot of really good things to say about you. Says you're a bit scary, though." 

Laura rolled her eyes. 

Sally tried to answer, but what did a woman say to the man she heard plead for mercy from his wife half a decade ago. What did a woman say to a man who she wanted to tease and torture until his balls were blue and swollen and tight? 

After the party, she tried to ignore the sexual urges she had--especially when she was at work. She engaged in vanilla relationships, only feeding the domme, sadist portion of her personality in solitude with porn, erotica, and fantasies. 

She never wanted to her sex life to interfere with her career--and as a woman of color in a white-male-dominated work environment, her proclivities, were they to get out, would definitely interfere. 

And when she was assigned to work with DI Lestrade, she did a damn good job of keeping her desires at bay. 

________

_The first time Sally touched her boss, he'd been skirting the edges of a panic attack. Two nights without sleep and a stomach full of espresso and crisps could do that after a murder-suicide crime scene._

He sat in the driver's side of the vehicle, his door open. He breathed in. Then out. Quick and shallow. "Fuck," he managed. 

She reached for him, the domme side of her desperate to calm the sweet, somewhat dopey sub. Before her skin touched his, she pulled back. She had to keep it appropriate. She could never let anyone know. Not about her, and not about her idiot boss partaking in recreational spankings. 

"Sorry, Donovan," he breathed. "Kids' ones are always the worst." 

His chest rose and fell rapidly. And his cheeks were red, she realized, from embarrassment. 

"Lestrade, you all right?" she asked, nervously. 

"I--I will...I will be," he panted. Those sad brown eyes met hers, and she melted. All the defenses and walls came down. A sub needed her. The sleep deprivation, the hunger, the over-caffeination could all be held responsible but ultimately, she caved to her domme desires because she wanted to. Because it felt right. 

She reached behind him to cup the nape of his neck, squeezing just hard enough to ground him. "Lestrade," she said firmly, "listen to me. Are you listening?" 

"Y-yes." 

"Take a deep breath in and hold it." 

He sucked in the air, but was unable to hold it due to the breath rhythm he was trapped in. 

"Try again." 

He did. 

"Hold it." 

He did. He obeyed. 

Sally counted to ten, then ordered him to breathe out. 

She walked him through the routine twice more, and when he was breathing more normally, she offered, "Good job." 

But what she wanted to say was, "Good boy." She wanted to wipe the sweat from his forehead, to make sure he had a decent meal before he went home to Laura, to lay his head in her lap until she could feel his anxiety subside. 

Her boss reached back to squeeze her hand, which still clasped his neck. "You're a good friend, Sal. Sorry about that." 

"It happens." 

____

_The first time she saw Greg cry, the bastard Holmes boy was leaving the scene of the dead lady in pink. She had to resist the urge to comfort him, to put him on his knees and promise him that everything would be okay. He wasn’t hers. And as far as he knew, there was no overlap in their sexual interests._

“Lestrade?” 

Those sad brown eyes met hers. One single tear slid down his cheek. “Sorry, it’s just Laura.” 

“What happened?” 

“I’m positive she’s stepping out on me.” 

She sighs. “You always think that. Sir,” she adds for good measure. To keep herself in line. 

“Yeah, but Sherlock--” He shakes his head. “Sorry, this isn’t the time or the place.” 

Sally could kill Laura for making her beautiful boy cry. “What did he say?” 

“You can tell someone’s been cheating because they’ve taken their ring off so many times that the inside is shinier. I noticed yesterday that Laura’s ring was on the dresser, meaning she’d taken it off before she left for work. She was running late, I thought it was just a mistake--” 

Sally allows herself to touch his shoulder. He quiets almost instantly. “Sorry. Really. I know you don’t do personal talk,” he says after a moment. He smiles at her. 

“Just talk to her, Greg.” No one in their right mind could just cheat on Lestrade. Especially with that tight arse . . . Sally allows herself to stare when he turns away to talk to Anderson. 

She goes home with Philip. He provides an outlet for her Domme-ier desires. Not full-on, of course. They never discuss safewords, nor do they have need of them. He likes to be bitten sometimes. He likes to have his hair pulled. But it never goes beyond that in terms of “a scene.” 

She’ll just have to be okay with it. 

____

_The first time she slipped up, it was New Year’s Eve. She’d come into the office to grab her gym bag, and was surprised to find see the light in Lestrade’s office was still on. Curious, she knocked on the open door._

Greg’s bleary eyes met hers. “Donovan.” He sat up, scrubbing his face. “I thought you’d gone to Cornwall for the holiday.” 

“Just got back, actually. I thought you and Laura were off in Dorset until after the New Year?” 

He sighed heavily. “We’re, er, we’re taking a break.” 

Sally waited, knowing that if she stayed silent long enough, he’d offer more information. Bless him, he was quite predictable. It’s why she had to coach him any time they dealt with the media. 

“She’s still cheating, it would seem.” 

Fucking dammit. Why? Why would she do that to him? 

_You only saw him as a submissive that one time. A decade and a half ago. He might be awful to live with. Maybe they’ve outgrown that lifestyle_ , she told herself. _Don’t assume he’s that receptive sub you saw on stage when you were eighteen._

But sadness didn’t belong in those gorgeous brown eyes. Desperation, brokenness, helplessness, yes, as long as someone lovingly placed it there, but this. . . 

He leaned back, resting his hands behind his head. “She didn’t even deny it this time.” He shrugged. “Didn’t even ask how I knew.” 

Sally rolled her eyes. She didn’t even need to ask, but she did. “Sherlock?” 

“Yeah.” He groaned, scrubbing at his face again. “He always knows everything well before I do. He solves my cases, he knows my wife’s cheating--he could live my life better than I could if he’d ever learn my name.” 

“Still trying counseling?” 

“At the moment, no. She doesn’t want to put forth any more effort. Her words: ‘I’m tired of trying to make this work.’” He smiled sadly. “I wanted so badly for her to love me again.” He said the last part to himself; nonetheless, it broke Sally’s heart. 

The overwhelming urge to comfort and protect was surfacing. She knew she needed to get out before she did something she’d regret. “You know what?” she snapped. “Fuck her. Seriously. She’s done with you, so be done with her. You deserve a better Domme.” 

The word slipped out before her mental filter could even catch it. It wasn’t until she saw the uncertainty on Lestrade’s face that she realized what she’d said. “Domme.” Not “wife,” not “partner,” not “lover.” 

_Domme._

Lestrade paled, emphasizing the dark circles beneath his eyes. “Sorry?” 

Sally took a step back. “Sorry. It’s not my business. Go home. Get some sleep. You look like shit.” She left before he could start asking questions. 

____

_The first time Sally and Greg ever talked about her knowing about his sexual appetites, they had both had too much to drink._

Sherlock had jumped. Greg had been in several long meetings with his superintendent throughout the week. The threat of being stripped of his position hovered over him, perceptible to everyone around him. A cloud of humiliation followed him everywhere he went. 

And so, Gregson, McDonald and Sally had taken him out for drinks. When Gregson and McDonald left, Sally and Greg sat in silence, nursing the remnants of their drinks. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence; quite the opposite in fact. Sally was fond of Lestrade’s brand of silence. It wasn’t brooding like McDonald’s or unsuccessfully calculating like Dimmock’s; it was the silence of a man who recognized that he had nothing of value to say. It was a sweet, authentic silence. 

He downed the remainder of his pint, then propped his feet up on the empty chair next to Sally. “Lemme ask you something.” 

“Go for it.” 

“How’d you know? About me and Laura.” 

Sally, her brain a bit dimmed by the three beers, answered, “You told me she was cheating.” 

“No. I mean . . . I mean about the other thing. You said,” here his face began to redden, “well, you referred to her as a Domme.” 

Oh. Right. Truthfully, she’d forgotten her New Year’s Eve fuck up. So much had happened since then. “Well, there’s two ways to answer this. I can give you an untrue answer that spares your pride and keeps our relationship professional and, you know, not weird, or I can tell you the truth and probably be transferred to another department. Your call.” 

He takes his time coming up with his answer. “Tell me the truth.” 

“Simple Pleasures,” she said, referring to the club she’d visited on her eighteenth birthday. 

His blush returned with vigor. “Oh.” After another long silence, he says, “I haven’t been there in, Christ, probably fifteen years.” A new discomfort seemed to wash over him. “How old were you?” 

“Old enough. It was my birthday.” 

Greg settled back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. His gaze was a bit too unfocused to play off that he was inspecting the light fixture. “And you worked under me all these years?” 

Sally pursed her lips. “We all have our things, don’t we, Lestrade?” It wasn’t a question. “Doesn’t mean it has to interfere with work. I know what I want, personally and professionally, and the two don’t have to overlap.” 

“Sally, I’m really embarrassed right now.” 

“Don’t be. It’s not a big deal. You’re a good copper. Something I saw fifteen years ago doesn’t change that, yeah?” 

“You haven’t ever--” 

“Told anyone? No. That would put me in a bad light too, wouldn’t it?” 

“Oh? Oh. Yeah, once I got these credentials, I told Laura it was too risky to keep playing in public like that. I don’t think she ever forgave me for that.” 

The instinct to protect and comfort was getting harder to subdue. “Fuck her,” Sally growled. She downed the remainder of her drink. “If she can’t handle your limits, that’s her problem, not yours.” 

“Yeah, but, and you can tell me if this is oversharing, it does things to you when you displease your D--partner, you know? I just wanted to be enough for her, and I replay our fights over and over in my head, and I feel like such a failure.” 

Sally frowned. The Domme in her was aching to get out, to wrap her hands around that thick neck and kiss him until his lips swelled. “Why does that make you a failure?” 

“Because I couldn’t keep her happy. I couldn’t play the way she wanted, and I couldn’t keep her happy by other means.” 

Later, Sally would tell herself that it was the alcohol. She would never do anything like that while sober. The fact was, though, it wasn’t the alcohol, at least not entirely. She’d wanted to compliment him for years, wanted to hurt him, wanted to pet him, and the opportunity just presented itself, and she couldn’t hold it in anymore. 

She took his hand, feeling both terrified and very confident, and said, “Then she was a bitch for leading you on. If that was a make or break thing for her, she should’ve had the guts to tell you.” She lowered her voice, leaning closer. “But if you were my boy, no one but me would ever see you like that. Those sounds and those tears were too sweet to waste on strangers.” Her heart was pounding in her ears to the point that she could no longer hear the surrounding sounds of the pub. Lestrade’s shocked expression, tinted with something vulnerable and visceral, egged her own. “You’re a good boy, Lestrade.” 

Holy shit. It felt so right. It felt so right to say that. She’d waited years to say it. And now the words were out there, floating around the submissive’s head, and it seemed so natural. It felt so good, so freeing. The truth was out, now; the truth that Lestrade was a desirable sub, and that Sally was a Domme capable of truly appreciating that. God, now if only, if only, she could take him home and then over her lap. . . 

She could comfort this hurting submissive. She could break him down piece by piece and then put him back together again. She could kiss away the sting of real life, replace it with the sting of her belt. She wanted it. She wanted him so much. 

Not just any submissive, she realized. She’d wanted that beautiful sub with the floppy fringe and brown eyes that she’d seen fifteen years ago. 

_And he’s your boss, Donovan,_ she told herself. _Have you completely forgotten everything you learned at that sexual harassment in the workplace seminar?_

Mortification hit her like a ton of bricks. Had she completely lost her fucking mind? She got to her feet. “Sorry, sir, I’ve completely overstepped my bounds. Really. I’m sorry. Just, erm, if you could, just forget it.” 

“No, please, sit,” he said, motioning for her to stay. He half-smiled when she took her seat. “It’s. . . it’s nice to know that not everyone thinks you’re a rotten failure. I appreciate it, Donovan.” 

She hadn’t explicitly asked for his submission and so he hadn’t denied it to her. They could go on as they had before, except now, their personal interests were on the table. 

She stayed a while longer, and they chatted about football, about politics, about stupid policies at work. She was both relieved and frustrated. 

Sally _really_ needed to find a boy. 

Denying her nature wasn’t working anymore. 

____

_The first time Sally played out a scene with a boy, she’d realized too late what he truly needed was a professional dominatrix._

He’d harped on and on in his emails about wanting to serve and submit, but when the rubber met the road, he’d mostly just wanted a rigorous spanking and to be insulted. Her pleasure seemed inconsequential to him. 

No doubt it had been fun, spanking his well-sculpted arse, but she longed to see trust and tears in those green eyes. Reggie offered neither. 

Though, she was at least partly to blame. She hadn’t asked for him to kneel. She hadn’t demanded his attention and affection. She hadn’t offered aftercare. 

_Live and learn._

____

_The first time Lestrade ever offered to play with her, she’d completely lost control of an investigation._

Lestrade had given her the go-ahead on arresting prolific con artist Eric Levale. Unfortunately, obtaining the warrant took longer than expected, and so when Levale was arrested, it was illegal, meaning that Sally had showed the NSY’s hand regarding the investigation. Levale fled the country as soon as he was released and Sally was reprimanded for being impatient and out of communication while on duty. 

The DI had taken her to a cafe after work. 

“Look, Lestrade, I don’t want to talk about this whole thing. I fucked up, I know it. I’m sorry. And I appreciate you going to bat for me, really. I don’t want to sound ungrateful, I’m just . . . embarrassed.” 

He shrugged. “If I wanted to talk about work, we could’ve chatted at the office. This is, well, it’s completely unprofessional. Or I guess I should say it’s not professional, not unprofessional. Huge difference there . . . though I suppose what I’m about to say is probably also unprofessional.” 

They chose some seats in a back booth, away from the listening ears and prying eyes. Sally knew him well enough to sense his apprehension. Outwardly, he seemed calm and collected, but his fidgeting and darting eyes told her he was ill at ease. Her curiosity was piqued further when he ordered a coffee, not a beer. 

“Sally,” he said after they’d received their drinks, “what I’m about to say, I need your guarantee that it won’t change our professional relationship, yeah? That no matter what comes out, when we go to work tomorrow, this conversation never happened. Do you follow?” 

She furrowed her brow. “No, not really. But I can keep a secret if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“That’s not what I’m asking. Before I broach Subject X, I need to know that however you feel about Subject X, it won’t be brought up at work and it won’t interfere with our professional lives.” 

“Jesus, Greg, what are you about to tell me?” 

He sighed, agitated. “I’m not about to tell you anything. I’m about to . . . offer you something.” 

Sally froze. Her eyes went wide. 

Lestrade licked his lips. “So, can you?” 

She stared. 

“Because if you can’t, that’s fine. I won’t even mention this ever again.” 

“What are you offering?” she asked, more intense than she intended. 

His shoulders relaxed. He exhaled slowly. “Completely separate from DI Lestrade, yeah? Completely separate from Sergeant Donovan?” 

“Yes, God, just tell me!” 

“If you want, and there’s zero pressure--I just know that sometimes, when we find ourselves in difficult work situations, you can feel powerless. And I think I might be able to help?” 

Sally narrowed her eyes. “Ask me.” 

“If you want, and after a serious chat, of course, assuming you say yes, I’d be willing to . . . submit to you. If you wanted.” His face was bright red. 

Sally’s own face felt hot, and her throat was dry. 

Her momentary shocked silence must’ve triggered the man’s own insecurities. “Not that--not that I’m a particularly desirable partner, of course. I’m--I’m not saying that. I just . . . Am I making a complete arse of myself?” 

“Little bit,” she answered with a smirk. “But I appreciate the offer.” 

“Oh.” His face fell. 

“I’m not saying no. At all. I want to play with you. Very much. But obviously, I have my reservations.” 

“About what exactly?” 

She slams her hands on the table. “All cards on the table, yeah?” 

“Right.” 

“Full disclosure, this never gets near the office?” 

“Yeah.” 

Her voice softened. “What if I can’t give you what you want?” 

He raised his eyebrows, a bit confused. “You’re a . . . you play . . . I mean, you’re a Domme, right?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I’m not offering you the opportunity to play, so much as I am a chance to . . . er, I guess take what you want. If you want me.” 

“You’re offering me your submission?” 

“Well, clearly not all of it all the time,” he said defensively. “I mean, just this one time. I mean, it doesn’t have to be this one time. We can play again, but I’m specifically offering you _this_ because I know you’re feeling a little like the rug’s been pulled out from under you. But I should say if you only want to play once, that I won’t be offended. Not that you’re concerned about offending me. . .” 

“Lestrade, shut up.” 

His mouth closed with a quiet click of his teeth. 

Her own embarrassment was fading, quickly being replaced with excitement and anticipation. “I accept. Now, let’s talk about limits and how you want to play.” 

“I really do want to, er, help you, Donovan. Really. I can give you limits and my list of ‘won’t do’s but I don’t have an agenda. Or really even expectations.” 

_No sub is this great,_ she thought. “So what are your limits?” 

He pulled a crumpled up receipt from his pocket, flipping it over to read his scribble on the back. “For tonight, no scat play or watersports, no bloodplay or impact play about the face. No public play. No breathplay that involves plastic bags or anything about my neck. I’m not especially fond of drowning play, but I can manage it if it’s something you need.” 

“Do you like pain?” 

He paused to think his answer through. “I like being owned.” 

“What does that mean?’ 

“I can’t explain it all that well. Sorry.” 

“Examples?” 

He sucked his teeth, leaning back against the booth cushion while he processed how to answer. “There’s a difference between being whipped by standard club toys and being whipped with a Dom/me’s belt. It’s not completely physical, yeah? There’s something, like, mental playing at it. And there’s something different about being insulted by a stranger versus being humiliated by someone you trust.” 

“So, you like having having a partner you can trust.” 

“It’s more than that, though. Really, there is. You can trust a professional dom/me but still not have that connection.” 

“And you think I can ‘connect’ with you?” 

“Sally,” he sighed, “this is really starting to feel more like a professional interview. You’re asking me what I want, but I’m offering this specifically for you, to help you, I don’t know, feel like you’re back in control again. Respected, I guess.” 

“I’m really afraid of disappointing you.” 

He smiled. “You won’t. Like I said, I have no expectations. You can use me however you see fit.” 

She rolled her eyes even though she was smiling. “I’ve heard that before.” 

“I mean it, though.” 

Sally took a deep breath. “It’s pretty rare that I penetrate. I don’t need a prick to dominate you, even if it’s a fake one, and you don’t have to be penetrated to be my bitch. 

“I very much enjoy torturing my boy’s nipples. Not playing with, but inflicting real pain. I once tied a boy down and whipped his chest until he cried. He was fun to play with,” she added fondly, “because he was so sensitive. He didn’t want to get hard for me when I did that to him, but he couldn’t help it. He was beautiful, all those conflicting feelings flashing across his face. 

“I’ve seen your bum, Lestrade, and if you submit to me, be prepared to be sore for a few days. Do you understand? I heard you sob for Laura, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make you scream for me. 

“And, sometimes, I play slowly. I might let you stew in a cockring while I read. I might just tie you down and explore your body for hours. I might bring you to the edge several times and stop just before you climax. You may not even get to orgasm. Which I know is something you’re used to.” 

“Now, what’s your safe word?” 

Lestrade was smiling bashfully at the tabletop, his cheeks tinged with pink. “October.”


	2. Spanking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spanking. Because . . . that's my kink.
> 
> If grown men getting spanked by women ain't your thing, back up, because this isn't for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically Greg is the perfect sub. The end.

_The first time Sally spanked Lestrade, he’d followed her quietly and obediently to her flat._

The sound of the shower cutting off and the curtain being pulled back shakes Sally out of her thoughts. She doesn’t want to fuck this up. She finally procures the full (probably? maybe?) submission of a particularly attractive, particularly sweet man, and it’s only _now_ that she considers the many ways that she can fuck this up. She could go too soft on him, make him doubt her prowess as a Domme, and who knows how that might affect their professional relationship. She might go too hard on him, make him safeword and ruin the trust they’d built up over the last ten years. 

God, what if she makes a fool of herself? 

She takes a deep breath, following the sound of his damp footsteps from the shower to the living room. She cracks her neck, then her knuckles. Another deep breath. 

She’s the Domme, Sally reminds herself. She’s in control. Lestrade is hers; he’d agreed to play with her. There is absolutely no space for self-consciousness and doubt. 

The footsteps stops at the threshold of her bedroom. Lestrade leans against the doorway, looking even more boyish with his wet hair spiked out in every direction and his expression soft and shy. He looks relaxed now, dressed in one of her fluffy blue bathrobes. Sally envies him. Her raging nerves are approaching that threshold between enjoyable anticipation and uncomfortable anxiety. Maybe she should’ve joined him in the shower. 

With some effort, she keeps her exterior even. “Ready?” 

“Just so we’re clear,” he starts, his voice purposely softer and maybe a little bit deeper, “once I step in, we’re playing right? I, er, I don’t wanna make a fool of myself.” He offers her a shy smile, one that clearly expresses his own insecurity and excitement. 

Sally nods. It’s nice to know she’s not alone, that the prospect of his submission to her frightens him as well. Conversely, seeing his apprehension makes her feel braver. “Whenever you’re ready, Lestrade.” She crosses her legs, staring him down. 

She’s Sally Donovan. She isn’t intimidated by anyone, least of all a subpar Detective Inspector. 

He steps over the threshold, running his fingers through his hair, slicking back the spikes. With the gracelessness that comes from being out of practice, he kneels in front of her desk chair, head bowed slightly. The very image of him like this, the robe sliding open at the front just enough to reveal those thick thighs, fans the flame of arousal in Sally’s gut. 

Yes, this is hers. Lestrade is hers. And she would ruin him. He would never seek out another Domme again, she would make sure of that. 

He leans forward, resting his chin on her knee so that he can look up at her with those soft brown eyes, the lids lower than usual. Then he waits, hands behind his back. 

Sally reaches out to stroke his hair, pleased with the soft, wet texture. A quiet, needy sound reverberates from his chest, like a kitten’s purr. He rests his cheek on her thigh, no longer looking up at her. A look of surrender washes over his face, and his shoulder sag further as he relaxes into her caress. 

Holy fuck, yes, this is what she’s wanted. What she’s needed. This is what she had pined for for years. He fucking needs her, needs her to calm him, to own him, to hurt him. He trusts her to give him these things, to be his defiler and his protector. 

Her fingers dip lower to his neck, playing with the shorter strands of hair. He responds with a sweet, appreciative moan. 

“I’m going to cuff you to my bed, Lestrade,” she says evenly, “and then I’m going to spank you.” She doesn’t elaborate. If he wants to back out, this is his chance. "Before we begin, I need to hear you say yes or no." Dread teases Sally’s gut when her pretty sub tenses ever so slightly. She ceases touching him, not wanting to coax him one way or the other. Sally wasn't a kind Domme, but she was a responsible one and she would never coerce his submission. "Whatever you say, you must mean, understand?" 

“It’s not a punishment, right?” His voice is small, echoing something inherently submissive. 

“No. It’s not a punishment. It’s for me.” 

"Then yes." The muscles in his shoulders loosen again, and as a result the robe slides off one shoulder. Sally notes the sigh of relief against her leg. “I wanna be good,” he whispers. Something about it breaks her heart, fills her with rage. Fucking Laura, telling this vulnerable little slut he’s not a good boy. 

Sally’s teeth ache to bite that exposed shoulder. God, what a beautiful little sub. So well-behaved and patient. “I’ll make sure you are, Lestrade.” Goosebumps break out across his skin. Sally smirks. “Sit up.” 

He obeys. He keeps his eyes trained on her. Waits for her orders. Sally’s mouth is watering. Based on that helpless look on his face, this boy would probably wait on his knees all night if she asked. 

“I want the robe gone.” 

His cheeks pinken, but he doesn’t hesitate. The robe sinks to the ground, submitting the entirety of the sub’s body for her approval. 

“Perfect,” Sally can’t help but hum. He is fucking beautiful. Really, legitimately beautiful. He isn’t overly fit, but he’s kept his arms and pectorals toned. His middle is less defined than she’d expected but clearly still firm beneath that layer of fat. His cock stands at half-mast between his thighs. “Excited already?” she asks, nudging his balls with the tip of her toe. 

He nods again, looking embarrassed. She thinks maybe she hears a very, very quiet whimper. 

“Say your safeword.” 

“October.” 

“Good boy.” Those words taste so good on her tongue. She’s said them before, of course, to random subs here and there, but they are so much sweeter this time. They mean more now; the look on his face when she spoke them told her as much. “Lay on the bed on your belly.” 

His cock twitches at the command. With red cheeks, he complies, taking his place horizontally atop Sally’s queen-sized bed, his face turned away from her so that his still-well-toned bum is more accessible. He spreads his arms out, reaching for the posts on either end so she can bind his hands. She doesn’t bind him immediately though; instead she runs her fingers down the line of his spine, watching the chills spread across his back and the nape of his neck. Tiny rivulets from his wet hair slip down his neck onto her quilt, darkening the fabric. Even after using her shower products, he still smells faintly of London rain and whatever cheap, sporty 3-in-1 shower gel he uses.. 

She traces the line of his back again, and he visibly shivers. Sally grins, letting herself lean down to bite his shoulder. Not hard, but certainly more than a nip. He tenses at first, but quickly makes himself relax. A soft sound emanates from his throat. He grips the bedposts tighter. 

He tastes so good, she thinks. Clean and vaguely salty and distinctly masculine. And his skin gives so readily against her teeth, satisfyingly supple and resilient. The feeling sates something within her. Watching him process the pain into pleasure eggs her on. 

_Mine._

_No, Donovan. He’s not yours. He’s not yours._

_He is for tonight._

She presses a soft kiss to the bitemark, pleased to see the indentations of her teeth on his tanned skin. She could pretend. She could pretend that he was hers. Her gorgeous submissive boy, willingly offering himself to be broken because _she_ needs it. 

“Do you like being cuffed, Lestrade?” she asks softly, almost mockingly. 

His nod is nearly imperceptible. 

She bites him again, this time leaving her mark on his neck. The tendons beneath straining briefly before submitting. Her tongue swirls around the damp skin before she releases him. 

Sally retrieves the cuffs, implementing them to immobilize his hands. “Tug,” she orders. 

He obeys. The posts don’t give, nor do the cuffs. He’s secured. 

She stands back to admire her handiwork. “Look at me.” 

The bent-over DI obeys, awkwardly looking over his shoulder at her, revealing his glassy eyes and red face. He looks remarkably boyish like this. And yet, he’s still so wonderfully masculine. Gray and black hair furrs his arms and legs. His thighs are wonderfully thick, a gorgeous blend of muscle and fat, leading up to that perfectly round, taut bum. 

What does this man do to keep his arse so firm at his age? 

Sally leers for a long while, her gaze obviously making her boy uncomfortable. He purposely avoids her eyes, his gaze focused on her desk across the room. She steps behind him, running her hands across his bared flesh. He flinches against the initial contact, triggering Sally’s predator instincts. 

Her grip tightens. He groans, feet shuffling on the floor as he adjusts. 

She starts with a few warm-up taps, which is more sound than sensation. His eyes clench shut, and his breath quickens. She sees him struggle to keep his legs straight, to fight the urge to protect his testicles. 

“Good boy,” she says. She’s not overly sweet in her praise. Sally’s never been one for flattery. Instead, she’s letting him know that she legitimately appreciates his trust, that he’s doing well, suppressing the self-preservation instinct. 

He melts beneath the praise, a long sigh sinking the upper half of his body into the mattress. 

She continues with the warm-up, alternating between taps and firm massage so that the blood flows to the surface. When he starts to shift his weight, when every small swat seems to verge on painful, Sally knows he’s ready. 

Without pausing and without warning, she brings her cupped hand down, the sound echoing through her bedroom, followed closely by her boy yelping in surprise. She waits only a second before spanking him again, harder this time, pleased at how quickly the skin tints to a darker pink. 

Again. And again. His skin and the tissue beneath bounce. Harder. Faster. Sally’s hand stings but his soft gasps alone make it worth it. The very sight of him bent over her bed, pert bottom presented to her rinses away any discomfort she has. 

She loses count of the strikes, spanking him with varying speed and strength. The irritated skin is turning bright red, and Sally’s own arousal is becoming mildly uncomfortable. She watches his face, a hot flushed mix of humiliation and pleasure, and then the little pervert has the fucking audacity to bite her bedsheets, to keep those delicious little yelps to himself as she hurts him. 

And the predator in Sally is livid. She tangles her fist in his hair, forcing his face to one side. She pins him there as she digs her nails into the fleshiest parts of his arse and drags four long hot stripes into his skin. He jumps at the new pain, shuffling his feet, trying to vain to get away. 

“Keep still, slut,” she warns him. Her grip on his hair tightens, and he cries out again. “I want to hear every-fucking-one of those sounds, understand? This is for me, so you do what I want, Lestrade.” 

A shiver runs down his spine. “Yes, miss.” God, his voice is just a whimper. Sally preens. Her pretty little victim gives so easily. 

“You don’t want this to turn into a punishment, do you, Lestrade?” she asks, roughly kneading his cheeks. 

“No, miss.” 

“You want to be good for me, don’t you?” 

He nods, but quickly remembers he’s supposed to be vocal. “I do, miss, so badly.” He cries out again when she spanks him. 

After a quick succession of hard hits to abused flesh, Sally pets his graying head. “Take a breather,” she tells him. He pushes into the palm of her hand, mewling at the touch. “We’ll start again in a moment.” 

He nods, his cheek rubbing against her comforter. “Yes miss.” 

His lips are parted, sparkling in the lamplight as he pants. Sally strokes his face, trailing downwards to trace the outline of his lips. He presses a soft kiss to her fingertips. It’s sweet and endearing, and Sally melts. She wants to hurt this boy, give him what he needs and in the process get what she needs. 

She wants to give and to take. 

“Give me a color, love.” 

The DI takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, his bulk sinking into the bed. “Green,” he says after a moment. 

“Sure?” 

“Yes, miss.” 

Sally grins, preparing to tear into him once more. No more warm ups. 

Her hand comes down hard against his reddened skin, the impact outweighing the echo this time around. He gasps, like she’s knocked the breath from him. A second hit. Third. He yelps, his hips jerking to avoid a fourth hit, the desire to get away from the assault overtaking him. The predator in Sally is amused at the attempt to get away, perversely aroused by his resistance, knowing that he can’t escape. 

She throws everything into beating the poor man, swallowing the yelps that transform into whimpers that transform into sniffles. Her mouth waters. His skin is livid. A tear slides over the bridge of his nose. 

“Do you regret agreeing to be mine for the night?” she asks between onslaughts. 

He stumbles over his words, a croaking sound emitting from his throat. Sally chuckles darkly before another high intensity spanking. “Answer me, Lestrade.” 

“No, miss,” he answers, his voice soft and deep and husky from tears. 

“Are you hard, Lestrade?” 

His blush returns, and his breath catches in his throat. He hides his face from his mistress. “Yes, miss, so hard.” 

She grips the back of his head, forcing him to face her again. “I warned you about keeping those sounds to yourself, didn’t I, Lestrade?” 

He shivers again, trying to form words but he can’t. He nods. 

“Why did you hide your face when I asked you a question?” 

She’s toying with him and he knows it and goosebumps have risen across the expanse of his body. “I was. . . ashamed.” 

“Ashamed?” she teases. “Even though you asked to be here?” He nods again, his eyes clenched shut. “You know, I have something I use for boys who don’t obey.” 

His eyes fly open, meeting hers. He’s hyper aware now, taking in every detail of the room, of her face and posture, of the position in which he finds himself. “Am I in trouble?” he asks, his voice small and frightened, and Sally can’t stop herself. She pounces, twisting his head so that she can kiss him, taste him, taste his desperation and his trust. He whimpers into her mouth, jerking at the bindings, eager to touch her, to be more accessible, to give her more. 

“You are in trouble, pretty boy.” 

His shoulders sag, the fight leaving his body. “I’m sorry, miss Sally.” 

The disappointment in his voice is crushing, and she finds her sadistic side backing down. She massages the area between his shoulder blades. “No need to apologize,” she assures him. “It’s all forgiven.” She keeps emotion out of her voice. “There’s still consequences, of course. But I’m not angry.” 

“Promise?” 

“I say what I mean.” She keeps her voice firm. She strokes his face again, and he practically purrs. 

The poor man is so starved for affection. Hungry to please and to submit. She almost decides against retrieving the thin cane from her closet. Almost. 

This was for her, after all. He’s surrendered himself to her for the night. If he is uncomfortable, he can safeword. 

Greg whines when she disappears from view. She positions herself behind him, observing the mess his cock has leaked on the part of the comforter that hangs off the bed. He’s flagging but still erect. She drags the tip of the cane along the underside of his cock and sac and he groans like a fucking whore, low and deep in his chest, and Sally can’t tell if it’s rooted in dread or lust. 

“Safeword if you need to.” 

“Yes miss.” 

A swish through the air. A crack. A grunt. A slim red welt taints the surface of his skin. Another swish, higher up on his backside. He hisses. She swings lower, swatting his thighs, and he cries out again. Higher, this time. Pained gasps. 

She doesn’t want him to safeword. She wants to break him down. Bring him to the edge. “You’re doing so well, Greg.” 

He sobs against the bed. 

She brings the cane down again, watching the muscles in his back and thighs clench. The sound he makes verges on a scream. “Do you know how much I’ve wanted this?” she asks him. She leans over to kiss the shell of his ear. She rains down her wrath on the entirety of his body presented to her, praising him as he struggles against the chains, tries to retreat from the blows marring his skin. “Do you know how much I’ve wanted to take down a pretty boy like you? And you’re so good, Lestrade. Really, you are. I’m so impressed.” The combination of praise, gentleness, and a fresh bout of cracks of the cane leave him shivering and gasping. 

“ _Hurts_ ,” he whines. 

Sally tangles her fist in his hair and pulls back, forcing his head back. He lets out a long, albeit weak roar. “You can take it.” 

Another hit. 

“ _Can’t_.” 

“Yes, yes you can. You’re my brave boy, taking everything I offer you.” Another swish through the air, and he cries out. “Aren’t you, Lestrade?” 

He whines in his throat. He screams when she lands a light blow to his testicles swinging between his legs. 

“Answer me, slut.” 

His answer comes quickly this time. “I wanna be, miss. I wanna be your brave boy.” 

She laughs at the agony in his voice and releases her grip on his scalp. Her body buzzes with lust, and her legs feel like jelly. She unleashes another set of impacts to his red, welt-covered bottom. 

When he can’t form words, when the tears are accompanied by body-shuddering sobs, she unlocks the cuffs. She pulls him against her, his head coming to rest on her chest. She brushes the sweat from his forehead, squeezing him tightly and wrapping him in her robe. 

“Miss?” He sounds so lost, like someone’s left him adrift at sea. 

God, she wants to _destroy_ him. Rescue him but never release him, so that she owns him, so that she alone can play with and torture him. “What?” 

“Can I have kisses?” 

How could she deny such a sweet request? She pins him down, straddling his hips. She attacks his mouth, biting those precious lips and his tongue until he’s passive. His cock presses insistently against her, twitching when her fingertips begin toying with Greg’s nipples. 

The sweet sub whimpers at the new sensation. Sally, perched on his hipbones, stares down the _so beautiful it hurts_ man she’s just beaten to tears. His lips are shiny and swollen from her kisses, and sweat has matted silver hair to his temples. The whites of his eyes are red and cascades threaten to spill over onto his cheeks. 

She forces his gaze up to her with her hand on his chin. He blinks at her, as though he can’t quite register the new position. Her hand comes to rest on his throat, gentle but a clear sign to him that they’re not finished playing. 

“Give me a color.” 

“Green, please, green.” 

“Don’t say it unless you mean it.” 

His adam’s apple bobs beneath her palm as he swallows. He hesitates before asking, “M-maybe some water? Please?” 

She swipes a bead of sweat from his forehead before rising off of him. “Go. Quick.” She juts her head in the direction of the kitchen. “Water’s in the fridge.” 

With unsure steps and shaky legs, the sub exits the room. Sally’s arousal spikes at the image of his very red, very tender bottom. Her clit throbs. She imagines Lestrade, on his knees, his tongue eagerly working her to climax. 

She’s got all night, she reminds herself. And he looked particularly pretty chained to her bed . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this fic was only supposed to have 2 chapters. But the outline is really long and I was like, "you know what, it's gonna be different chapters."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I know it's not a popular ship. I've enabled anonymous commenting because I know this is all just . . . nonsensical OOC shit, so, like, I'm not even ashamed at this point. Flame away folks! (Do people still say that? I'm hip with the kids these days.)


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